“I lost twice twenty,” he observed.  “Bunny is in fifty, I believe.  Duane and Rosalie lose.”

“Is that all you care about the game?” she asked with a note of contempt in her voice.

“Oh, it’s good for one’s health,” he said.

“So is confession, but there’s no sport in it.  Tell me, Mr. Dysart, don’t you play any game for it’s own sake?”

“Two, mademoiselle,” he said politely.

“What two?”

“Chess is one.”

“What is the other?”

“Love,” he replied, smiling at her so blandly that she laughed.  Then she thought of Rosalie, and it was on the tip of her tongue to say something impudent.  But “Do you do that game very well?” was all she said.

“Would you care to judge how well I do it?”

“As umpire?  Yes, if you like.”

He said:  “We will umpire our own game, Miss Seagrave.”

“Oh, we couldn’t do that, could we?  We couldn’t play and umpire, too.”  Suddenly the thought of Duane and Rosalie turned her bitter and she said: 

“We’ll have two perfectly disinterested umpires.  I choose your wife for one.  Whom do you choose?”

Over his handsome face the slightest muscular change passed, but far from wincing he nodded coolly.

“One umpire is enough,” he said.  “When our game is well on you may ask Rosalie to judge how well I’ve done it—­if you care to.”

The bright smile she wore changed.  Her face was now only a lovely dark-eyed mask, behind which her thoughts had suddenly begun racing—­wild little thoughts, all tumult and confusion, all trembling, too, with some scarcely understood hurt lashing them to recklessness.

“We’ll have two umpires,” she insisted, scarcely knowing what she said.  “I’ll choose Duane for the second.  He and Rosalie ought to be able to agree on the result of our game.”

Dysart turned his head away leisurely, then looked around again unsmiling.

“Two umpires?  Soit!  But that means you consent to play.”

“Play?”

“Certainly.”

“With you?”

“With me.”

“I’ll consider it....  Do you know we have been talking utter nonsense?”

“That’s part of the game.”

“Oh, then—­do you assume that the—­the game has already begun?”

“It usually opens that way, I believe.”

“And where does it end, Mr. Dysart?”

“That is for you to say,” he replied in a lower voice.

“Oh!  And what are the rules?”

“The player who first falls really in love loses.  There are no stakes.  We play as sportsmen—­for the game’s sake.  Is it understood?”

She hesitated, smiling, a little excited, a little interested in the way he put things.

At that same moment, across the lawn, Rosalie and Duane strolled into view.  She saw them, and with a nervous movement, almost involuntary, she turned her back on them.

Neither she nor Dysart spoke.  She gazed very steadily at the horizon, as though there were sounds beyond the green world’s rim.  A few seconds later a shadow fell over the terrace at her feet—­two shadows intermingled.  She saw them on the grass at her feet, then quietly lifted her head.